


The (Somewhat Longish) Nun Story

by kayliemalinza



Series: The Piratical Nun [1]
Category: Pirates of the Caribbean (Movies)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-02-29
Updated: 2004-02-29
Packaged: 2017-10-27 07:26:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,166
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/293194
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kayliemalinza/pseuds/kayliemalinza





	The (Somewhat Longish) Nun Story

Two nuns walk into a bar. One nun turns to the other nun and says, "Keep out of trouble," in a dour and threatening voice, for she is a dour and threatening sort of person. In fact, she is exactly the type of woman you would expect to be a nun; she is old and crusty and fat, and has no problem giving her body to God, because no-one else has showed the slightest interest in it (and to tell the truth, God hasn't shown much interest, either).

The other nun doesn't look like she wants to be a nun. She looks like she wants to be a barmaid, judging by her long, wistful looks at the bottles of rum and the men drinking them.

"Hullo, dark eyes," says a red-haired lad, and winks. Then he gives a cough and turns back to the bar because the old and ugly nun, who does not have dark eyes, has given him a rather intimidating stare.

"Such disrespect to a servant of God," she intones. "May He forgive you for your carnal sins. Barkeep!" The man behind the bar looks up with a face like a winter apple.

"Yes, Mother?" he asks. "Sumthin' I kin do for ye?" She smiles approvingly.

"Yes, my child. Is there a Captain Hollis here?" she asks. The barkeep nods and points as Captain Hollis stumbles over a chair or three, regretfully leaving his ale at the bar.

"I was just coming, Mother Superior," he says, sounding pleasant and well-mannered and just a little bit frightened. "The ship is ready to go. I was only stepping in for a wee drink before we set off." His smile fades a little bit. "Eh… where'd the other nun go?" he asks. The Mother Superior's pale and rather scary blue eyes go wide and scan the room with her mischief-spotting laser beams.

"Sister!" she cries. "Get away from that horrid man immediately!" The second nun gives her a pleading glance over the lip of the rum bottle, then sighs resignedly and gives the rum back. The red-haired lad affects a sort of apologetic shrug before shrinking again under the vicious stare of the Mother Superior. "And you, _sir_ ," says the Mother Superior, with the strong implication that she does not think the lad is a 'sir' at all. "Have you no shame!" she berates. "Offering the Devil's drink to a _nun_!"

"But she asked so nicely," says the lad.

"First bit of rum in fifteen years," mutters the nun. "Just a sip. Is that so bad?" Then she winces a little, because the Mother Superior has grabbed her arm and dragged her out of the bar.

" _That_ ," hisses the Mother Superior, "is exactly why you are being sent to the missions in the colonies. Impiety, lustful thoughts, repeated escape attempts—I only pray that God has mercy on your soul."

"Ow," says the nun, rubbing her arm. The sting has nearly faded when they reach the docks that stretch across the skyline like a cage. The nuns looks up at the masts and the riggings crossing the English clouds, and the younger one feels her blood race.

"Which ship are we going on?" she asks, locking her limbs into an unnatural, serene pace as they follow Captain Hollis. "Are we going on that one?"

"Don't point," says the Mother Superior. "And no, that ship is much too big. We're going to be on that little sloop over there." The nun tears her eyes regretfully from the grand, gilded ship of the line to the tiny sloop bobbing in its wake.

"Oh," she says, swallowing a note of panic. _Wide open spaces_ , thinks the nun, taking a deep breath. _Wide open spaces._ She risks another glance at the sloop, and stifles a moan.

 _God hates me._

`~`

Three weeks later, the nun is watching the clock. _Only five more minutes,_ she thinks, staring intently at the poor beleaguered timepiece ticking on the wall of her tiny cabin. _Five minutes, and I can escape this stuffy little cabin… where the walls are closing_ _in_ …. She takes a deep breath and wipes her hands nervously on her habit. _Wide open spaces. Wide… open spaces. Pernicious clock, go faster, damn you!_

"Sister," says the Mother Superior, not looking up from the huge dusty tome sequestered on her lap. "I was not aware that your Latin text was hiding behind the clock."

The nun blinks, tearing her burnt, brittle gaze from the wall.

"My apologies, Mother," she says, and forces herself to the book in front of her. The clock gives a sigh of relief. The Mother Superior's frown deepens as she turns a page, sending a cloud of dust into the air.

"Since you seem to have trouble concentrating," she pronounces, "Perhaps we should spend a few more minutes on the texts today."

 _Well gee, I'd love to,_ thinks the nun, very purposely not thinking about the size of the cabin. _It's not as if this book is_ _ **boring**_ _or anything._

"Yes, Mother," she says.

"After all, we have plenty of time before dinner. You've been spending too much time on deck, anyway. It's unseemly for you to be gallivanting about with the crew. You're only getting in the way."

 _Would it be unseemly for me to shove this book up your arse?_ wonders the nun.

"Yes, Mother," she says, and returns to her book.

Finally, about a million years later, the Mother Superior closes her tome.

"We have learnt much today," she says. "Let us pray."

The nun kneels with no little relief, and dutifully pulls out her rosary. She fingers the beads reverently, waiting for the Mother Superior to begin the prayer. After a moment of silence, and a moment more of indecision, and then another moment of blatant wishful thinking, the nun looks up.

The Mother Superior is regarding her rosary rather suspiciously.

"Sister," she says. "Is that quite… appropriate?"

The nun glances down, admiring briefly the glint of sunlight off the five-inch solid gold crucifix and the vibrant glow of the walnut-sized ruby beads and the sparkle of intricate silverwork connecting it all together. She raises her big, brown, innocent eyes to the Mother Superior's watery blue churlish ones.

"No treasure is too great for my God," says the nun sincerely. _At least, the Archbishop of Canterbury thought as much,_ she thinks. _I knicked this from him meself_.

The Mother Superior regards her for a long, agonizing moment during which the nun is not entirely sure that she is not smirking. Apparently she isn't, for the Mother Superior turns away without saying anything more. Together, the nuns clasp their rosaries, sweet words of peace and worship spilling from their lips. " _Pater noster, qui es in coelis…._ "

 _Thank God she's stupid_ , thinks the nun.

`~`

Dinner is a solemn affair. The Mother Superior says grace, everyone else says "Amen," and the salted pork and beer begin to disappear. Soon, the Mother Superior mumbles something about the Holy Father calling her to meditate, which means that she has a headache and wants to lie down for a bit. As soon as her heavy footsteps fade from the galley, the first mate launches into a tawdry story about the King of France. Immediately, there follow rude allegations as to the veracity of the tale. The first mate defends his honor, Captain Hollis pours more beer, and the nun secretly relieves her neighbor of his hip flask. But before returning it, just because she is a nice person, she empties it so as to spare the poor man the crippling weight of his rum.

The sailor doesn't notice. Captain Hollis doesn't notice, either, but he smiles as the nun settles comfortably into her seat, her hands wrapped around a mug of beer. _That nun's a sweet girl_ , he thinks. _Hasn't got a malicious bone in her body_.

"I swear, it's the God's truth!" proclaims the first mate, his hand held up as a gesture of his sincerity. "The King of France is a blinkin' _eunuch_!" There is a round of groans, eye-rolls, a few impolite epiteths and in the midst of all this, the nun giggles.

It's not a very loud giggle, as giggles go, but it is certainly a strange one. It sounds like a great big belly laugh that has been squeezed into a bottle with the cork tight on, and it can only be let out a little bit at a time. So, it is a rather quiet, strangled giggle, but the first mate hears it and he leans closer to the nun.

"It's true, and I wouldn't lie to a nun." he says. "He _is_ a eunuch. They cut off his head, didn't they?" The crew explodes into laughter, and the first mate looks inordinately pleased with himself. The nun doesn't laugh, probably because she is expected to, but she smiles. This is somehow better, because it's a real smile, a fresh and strong one that didn't have to fight its way from the folds of her habit.

That smile lingers for a few hours as she sits near the door, listening for any sign of the Mother Superior's return and enjoying the banter of the crew, as well as the rum they pass around when they think she isn't looking. It was a good day for sailing; the winds have stayed even into the night, and only a few hands are required up on deck to watch for ships passing in the dark. The nun is just thinking that a turn in the night air with the sea stretching eternally about her would be wonderful. But at the moment she is pleasantly buzzed and it's just warm enough in the galley, and after fifteen years in a nunnery, she'd almost forgotten there was such a thing as a sense of humor.

The first mate is making inroads on another vulgar tale, his face flushed from beer and laughter.

"Now, I was told this by the same man what told me about the King of France-"

"It's going to be cock and bull again, Parish, don't bother," drawls a sailor.

"Hold on a minute! It's a good story anyway! So this man—I met him when I was down in Tortuga last leave, and he bought me an ale, fantastic man. Quite the character, too. A great bunch of hair going every which way, with beads and bones all tangled up in it. He told stories like the best of 'em, mates, and here's his biggest story of all; I asked his name, and he throws his chest out, wobbles a bit on his stool, and says, 'I'm the best bloody pirate in the Caribbean! I'm Captain Jack Sparrow!'"

There is a crash. The nun stares at the first mate, heedless of the silence in the galley and the shards of rum-flavored mug at her feet.

"Jack Sparrow," she says, spitting out the name. "A pirate, named Jack Sparrow." Parish nods, a little wary of the sudden bitter burn in her eyes.

"Aye," he says. "It could have been him, true enough. He seemed to fit the stories."

"What stories?" asks the nun, leaning forward. The sailors next to her shift away, and the first mate gives a gentle snort.

"The legends, more like," he says. "What man, wench, or child in these parts hasn't heard of Jack Sparrow?"

"I haven't," says the nun quietly. Her voice, like her laugh, can only escape a little at a time.

"You was in a nunnery, Sister," Mr. Parish says amiably. "Don't expect you'd hear much about pirates."

"Aye," says the nun. The word, encompassing fifteen years of her life, slides down her throat like a bitter tonic. She gives the first mate a benign smile, showing the faintest glimmer of teeth. "So tell me the legend," she says, "of this great _Jack Sparrow_."

`~`

The nun, standing at the bow, looks for something to throw. For a moment she wishes she were back in the convent; the stone walls of her cell clatter quite nicely when you throw plates at them. Here, all there would be is a faint splash, or the thud of ceramics against the hollow deck. But this, the nun supposes, is a more than fair exchange for the open sea instead of a six foot stone room. But she's still pissed off. The first mate talked for hours, recounting tale after tale of Jack Sparrow, and the nun got madder and madder. The "legendary Jack Sparrow", gathering fame and glory through his adventures on the high seas. Bah! He even named his ship _Black Pearl_ , the tramp.

"Dirty rotten bastard," she mutters. She winds her forearm through a bit of rigging and leans over the bow to the sea. The wimple slides back and she lets it, finally ripping it off all the way and dropping it carelessly to the deck with a sigh. The sticky night clings in her hair as she watches the moon, round and pale as the bottom of a bottle of rum. The rum has been good for her, she thinks. She is exceedingly angry, of course, but it is a lively, sweet anger, the sort of anger that accomplishes great things. This is not the tightly-wound and painful anger that she normally feels. After all, she is helpless against the Mother Superior and the Church. They are institutions, as solid as the stone walls that entrap her.

Jack Sparrow is quite a different matter. The nun is not sure how she will do it, but she makes a vow: she will hunt him down, give a grand speech condemning him, and then perform all manner of violent acts upon his person. She smiles beautifully at the thought. Her cheeks, flushed with anger, burn in the darkness and her eyes glimmer in the moonlight. The Caribbean wind, to add to the dramatic effect, gives a sultry toss to her dark hair in passing. The sailor watching from the crow's nest falls in love.

This is mostly why he doesn't notice the pirate ship approaching them until it is too late.

"Ship ahoy!" comes the cry, echoing over the silvered deck. "It's the Jolly Roger!" The only other sailor topside is slow to respond; he's just fallen in love with the nun, too. After all, he hasn't seen a woman in three months, and he can't even remember the last time he saw a woman with all her teeth. The nun, however, hears the warning immediately. She looks up at the crow's nest, where the sailor is pointing aft. The ship must be coming up behind them, then. And Jolly Roger…. That's a pirate flag, right? Big, scary pirates, who would kill and hurt and maim and do all sorts of other horrible things to their captives. Pirates who, in all probability, don't give a damn about remaining chaste and demure and pure. Pirates who have rum.

The nun runs for the stern as fast as she can.

The pirate ship is bearing down on the sloop like the ball towards the ninepins. It is close enough that the mast spills a shadow-crucifix across the deck of the sloop, close enough that the nun can hear the cries of the criminal crew and the angry flapping of the black sails.

Black sails.

Thank God in Heaven above, the pirate ship has black sails.

For the first time in years, the nun laughs for joy. She jumps onto the railing, grabbing the nearby rigging to keep from pitching into the sea as she swings dangerously over the water. The _Black Pearl_! The nun praises God again for this heavenly sign that her plans of revenge are blessed, momentarily forgetting that she doesn't believe in that tripe. The pirate ship swoops into range of the long-nines, then keeps coming. The crew of the sloop dashes in panic behind the nun, and Captain Hollis calls out, "Forget the guns! Prepare for boarders!"

 _They outgun you by a dozen, anyway_ , thinks the nun. And then someone grabs her.

She gives a silent shriek and struggles, then hears Captain Hollis in her ear: "You need to go below deck, Sister. It's not safe for you up here." The nun stills, and he sets her down. She stares at him, heart climbing up her throat. Below deck? Now? With her victim so close at hand? Captain Hollis gives her a shove towards the open hatch.

"There's no time to lose!" Then he jumps, and the nun gives a startled squeak as the pirate ship, a blackened spectre against their hull, drops a gangplank. Captain Hollis rushes her forward through the hatch, then whirls around to face the fearsome intruders, hand inching toward the pistol at his hip.

 _Lot of good it'll do him_ , thinks the nun, peeking around the briny wood. She sees the pirates circle the captain and shove him to his knees. Then someone grabs her again. The nun hisses a very bad word and digs her heels into the floor as the sailor drags her down the passageway, tosses her into her cabin, and slams the hatch. The nun barely has time to spit an epithet after him before the Mother Superior crams a wimple on her head and pushes her onto the bunk.

 _Will everyone stop shoving me around!_ gripes the nun.

"I can't believe you," says the Mother Superior, voice trembling slightly as she wedges herself onto the bunk next to the nun. "Running amuck among those brutish pirates, and your head uncovered! When I think of what those depraved devils might have done in the face of such temptation—" She gives a terrible shudder and presses closer, eyes glistening in the sallow candlelight.

The nun slowly tucks her hair beneath the wimple as a heated tendril of fear snakes along her jawline. _He wouldn't let them do that to me_ , she thinks. Her skin, unconvinced, begins to prickle. There comes an ominous crash from above.

"Huddle closer," says the Mother Superior. "God have mercy on us if we are found.... Child, let us pray."

The nun kneels beside her and bows her head, leaving the solid gold rosary in her pocket in favor of a small, worthless one. She doesn't want to get robbed, after all. She just wants to commit a bit of murder and really, is that so bad?

The nun murmurs her prayer, skin itching at the warm wash of the Mother Superior's panicked breath against her neck. Her lips form the Latin by habit; inside, her mind is running itself giddy with all the little details of her private fantasy. The flush of blood is quick, an ecstatic counterpoint to the ponderous creak of salt-washed wood and the restless sibilance of the waves. Mingled in these timeless rhythms come the clinking of coin, and the frightened groans of full-grown men.

 _Finally_ , thinks the nun, as her ship is invaded and plundered by pirates. _I am going to be free!_


End file.
